


In His Hands

by sanguisuga



Series: Aberrant Fragments [11]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Coping, Daddy Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Johnstrade, Kinda, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Nightmares, Of course..., Oral Sex, Post-Reichenbach, Sharing a Bed, past Mystrade, possibly, sexual healing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8946073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguisuga/pseuds/sanguisuga
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John flounders. A certain silver-haired DI helps him back on his feet by bringing him into his bed.((Please note that I did not tag 'Major Character Death' because we all know that Sherlock didn't really die in The Fall. {Spoiler alert!} Unfortunately for John and Greg, they aren't in the know. Yet.))





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okey-doke. This here is a bit of a thing that I've been fiddling with for a while. Some future chapters started going down a path that I'm not quite sure about, so it got stalled a bit. Plus the potential angst - uff da...
> 
> Truth to tell, I'm posting this mostly as a bit of a cheat. I really wanted to hit 1M words posted before the end of the year, and with the stories I currently have running, that just would not happen. But with this...oh yeah, I'm getting in that million word mile-marker.
> 
> I would still love to hear any feedback that you guys may have - I mean, it isn't like there aren't a buttload of these post-Reichenbach hurt/comfort stories already out there and all...
> 
> ;-)

John swallowed uneasily as he spied an indistinct shape of a man loitering in the sitting room of 221B, his heart skipping a beat with untempered joy as his brain registered only a tall, lean silhouette. In the next moment his eyes caught sight of the umbrella that the man was leaning against, and his heart plummeted straight back down into his guts.

Mycroft glanced down at the empty duffel that John had tucked up under his arm, not even bothering to conceal the tiny sneer on his lips. “I can most certainly have the few remaining items of yours boxed and forwarded to Detective Inspector Lestrade’s address if you’re tired of scheduling these sneaky little trips of yours around Mrs. Hudson’s weekly visits to Mrs. Turner.”

John scowled fiercely. “I’m not moving in with him. I haven’t...  _We_ haven’t, it’s not like that - he’s just helping me to get back on my feet.”

“My dear Doctor Watson, please don’t feel that you need explain anything to _me_. While I’m sure that my brother cared for you after his own fashion and would wish for me to ensure your continued health and safety, Detective Inspector Lestrade is far more - hands on, as it were. My little brother’s rather abrupt departure from this world left a gaping hole in Gregory’s life as well, you know.” The thin lips pursed into a sour pucker. “Why do you think he came to you that very night? Without someone to look after, he would be just as adrift as you now find yourself. I would advise you to give in to your curiosity and to take the comfort that Lestrade is offering you in his own subtle fashion. In many ways, the two of you are ideal for each other, and if it had not been for my brother’s divisive personality, you most likely would have migrated together long before now.”

John took in a deep breath, the denial automatically rolling off his tongue. “I’m not...”

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Oh, I do wish you would shut up about that. As frightening as it must be to admit to yourself after so many years, you know very well that you most certainly are not the perfect Kinsey zero that you continually puff yourself up as. There are myriad degrees of sexual and romantic attraction, and you cannot deny that Lestrade has certain - charms - and that he is all too eager to bestow them upon a willing partner.” Mycroft made a show of looking down at his flawlessly manicured nails, clucking at a what he deemed to be an imperfect cuticle. “Not that he would push unduly, of course. Surely he’s made that abundantly clear in the past few weeks, seeing as how you have been sharing a bed since it happened and he has yet to even try to kiss you. Stop being so damned stubborn about clinging to your outdated notions of masculinity. He will most definitely make it worth your while, Doctor Watson.”

“How would you even...” Mycroft lifted an elegant eyebrow and let his sardonic smirk speak for itself. John huffed out an aggravated breath, some odd sense of outrage burning in his belly. “Right. And I suppose you broke his heart somewhere along the way just like Sherlock managed to do to me?”

There was only the barest hint of discomfort on Mycroft’s face, and absolutely nothing of shame. “I explained precisely what I would be expecting of him and he knew very well not to expect anything of me in return. All in all, it was a highly enjoyable if rather sporadic association, and I do not regret a moment of it. Not even ‘breaking his heart’, as you so colloquially put it. At least I did not do him the disservice of throwing myself off a building in front of him.” Mycroft appraised him coolly as John fumed silently, his hands clenched into tight fists. “Go home to your Gregory, Doctor Watson. Allow him to touch you and soothe both your hurts.” The elder Holmes - the _only_ Holmes - sighed with a reasonable facsimile of wistfulness. “I almost wish - but no. I'm quite certain that he would not allow it again.”

“ _I_ would not allow it,” John spit out venomously.

There was a brief flash of triumph in Mycroft’s eyes as he strode past him, and John felt the tension in his shoulders ease abruptly, his head going a bit wobbly at nothing more than the stark implication in his cold grey gaze. “Just so.”

John stood at the top of the stairs and watched as his tormentor strolled out the front door, swinging that damned brolly of his as though he had just scored a point in a game of his own design. Which - to be fair - he most certainly had. John wondered idly what kind of points he might win if he wrested that damn thing out of Mycroft’s talons and simply laid about him for all he was worth. Hell, it might even be worth the beating that his goons would no doubt deliver if he were to dare.

He slumped down on the sofa and let his eyes wander over the detritus of Sherlock’s passing. Nothing much had changed since that last day other than the dishes having been washed and put away, the fridge being divested of the toes in the crisper, and the microwave cleared of eyeballs. Mrs. Hudson, landlady and decidedly not housekeeper, was apparently keeping things as tidy as possible while keeping the space held frozen as some sort of weird memorial to the brilliant man who had made this his home.

Their home.

It wasn’t the partnership that he had truly longed for, the one that nearly everyone had believed to be theirs. In truth, John’s defensive protestations had mostly been uttered to keep that look of pity out of Sherlock’s eyes whenever someone had made that familiar assumption. They were friends - good friends, yes - but nothing beyond that. Sherlock simply hadn’t had anything more to offer him. John had known that very well, had taken what he could and had tried to be satisfied with that. Not that it could stop his subconscious mind from skipping merrily into salaciousness, and he had often woken with Sherlock’s name upon his lips and a considerable mess making his pyjamas stick to him uncomfortably.

Sherlock had known - of course he had. But it was never mentioned, and John had accepted his flatmate’s silent apologies in the form of random cups of tea at all hours and the occasional odd but sincerely heartfelt gift. John fished in his trouser pocket and pulled out his keyring, fingering the small, twisted bit of metal that looked like it had once been a key to a valise or the like. Sherlock had given it to him after an extended case, claiming that he had found it during the final chase and that he had thought of him. His cheeks had been pink, and if John had been an overly sentimental man, he may have allowed himself to hope, but - no.

The next day it was business as usual all over again, and when Sherlock had seen his impromptu token of friendship residing on John’s keyring, he had frowned at it in confusion - almost as though he had forgotten that he had gifted it to his flatmate at all. Or perhaps it was just the overt display of sentiment that got so under his skin?

Either way, John had felt vibrantly and exquisitely alive with Sherlock Holmes at his side, a feeling that he had not experienced for a very long time, well before his shoulder had been shattered by that stupid lump of metal. Mycroft had been right after all, always all-knowing, always infuriatingly correct in his deductions. John had seen the battlefield when they walked the streets of London together, and Lord, but it had been an exhilarating sight. And even though there were longings that he knew absolutely that were never to be fulfilled, John had believed himself finally happy and satisfied in his own skin.

Until.

Until Sherlock had left his ‘note’, his voice breaking with unusual emotion in John’s ear, his so-called confession of trickery. He had tried to convince him that it was a long con he had been running and nothing more. It had been bullshit, obviously, and John still refused to believe any of it. There was always something more behind a Holmes’ words, double and triple meanings twisting and twining around each other until all original intent was lost. But no - that damn ‘note’ was complete and utter bullshit.

Until.

Until his beloved madman had willingly stepped off that precipice, pinwheeling into empty air and disgracing the pavement in front of Barts with his lifeblood.

_‘I’m a doctor, no please...he’s my friend. No.’_

John shuddered and viciously swiped at his eyes with the cuff of his shirt, the veil of his tears obstructing his view of Billy the skull and that blasted knife still stuck into the mantel. Gone. Sherlock was gone, never to return, and John knew that there was no use in him continuing to come back here, only to be confronted with the ghost of his memories over and over again.

Once again, Mycroft had been right, damn the man all to hell. Greg had been nothing but an immense comfort to him in the aftermath, had seen to it that John kept functioning, or at least mostly so. Without the older man’s constant encouragement and silent strength at his side, he was sure that he would have succumbed to his own streak of self-destructiveness. As it was now, all of the booze that he had known for a fact that Greg kept in his cupboards had mysteriously vanished, along with his Sig.

He knew that he should feel some sense of outrage over the invasion of his privacy and outright theft of his personal belongings - particularly his weapon, but... He trusted Greg to be looking after his best interests. He honestly trusted him far more than he ever had Sherlock, that was for sure. John hunched forward, putting his head in his hands and looking down at the dusty rug between his feet. Truth to tell, he liked being looked after, liked being the object of someone’s concern.


	2. Chapter 2

John hadn’t even been aware of it at first - had hardly been aware of anything, in fact. He wasn’t even sure how he had managed to make it back to Baker Street after shaking off strangers’ helping hands; whether he had walked mindlessly or if he had somehow managed to find his way into the back of a cab. There were only the vaguest memories of stumbling into the sitting room, collapsing into his armchair and staring blankly across at the spot where Sherlock had often curled up like a great black cat, now forever to remain empty. 

John tilted his head slightly as he cast his mind back, the minute creaking of the house settling in around him, the faint scent of must and dust aiding in his remembrances. Sounds, yes - the sound of the outer door opening, a gentle knocking at Mrs. Hudson’s door. The news being delivered in a broken monotone, the quickly cut-off wail of distress. She had screamed her sorrow and her loss into Lestrade’s shoulder, and he had no doubt bolstered her until her knees were no longer weak. Or perhaps he had helped her back inside her own flat, as John now recalled a heavy silence wafting up the stairs, occasionally broken only by the echo of soft hiccoughing sobs. 

John knew that Greg had visited with Mrs. Hudson for a long time, as he had been dimly aware of the room growing utterly dark around him as he sat and stared. His extremities had gone numb with the chill in the room, although he didn’t feel it. He hadn’t felt anything until the kitchen light had flipped on, and even then he had simply blinked slowly, a dim sort of confusion flickering in his brain. Then there had been a blanket around his shoulders, and his frozen hands were being chafed back into some semblance of living flesh. 

Greg had pulled him to his feet, had paraded him up and down until his legs had stopped tingling, and then he had sat him down at the kitchen table and fed him soup. Literally, as one would a child, with soft encouraging murmurs and a half-full spoon nudging at his lips. John had dutifully consumed what he was given, only barely acknowledging that Greg was taking the odd spoonful for himself from the same utensil. The broth was rich and creamy, it slid down easily and settled comfortably in his belly, filling him up without making him feel heavy. 

His eyes had started to droop somewhere during this process, his body beginning to slip into healing unconsciousness. Greg had once again pulled him to his feet, had guided him up the stairs to his small attic room and into the tiny toilet. With a gruff, “I’ll leave you to do this bit on your own,” he had stepped away and allowed John a brief allotment of privacy in order to get his business done. He had been waiting as John emerged, moving stiffly and somewhat mechanically, surprised to feel his hands shaking as he moved toward the bed. He had stood there, just staring down at them blankly as Greg had gently but efficiently stripped him out of his jeans and jumper, pulling a soft but warm jogging outfit onto his body. 

He had sat him down and crouched at his feet, tugging a pair of woolen socks onto his feet. “Shock. We’ll just get you all bundled up and you’ll be right as rain.” John had willingly slid under the covers as Greg pushed at him, tucking them up under his chin and patting him a little awkwardly on the top of his head. “There you go. I’ll call in the morning, yeah?”

John quite clearly remembered the swift flash of sheer panic that he had felt at that innocuous statement, the cold sweat that had suddenly broken out all over his body. “No.” He had somehow managed to capture his attendant’s shirt cuff, tugging on it firmly. “P-please.” 

With a slow dip of his head and a low hum, Greg had slipped his shoes off and had climbed into the bed with him, stretching out on top of the covers a respectable distance away. John had listened to him breathing and had felt the weight of his body near his and had finally felt warm enough and safe enough to allow his eyes to slip closed. 

It was much the same for the next three days, with Greg by his side nearly constantly as he shambled through the ruins of his life, ensuring that he was fed and watered properly, trying to engage him in insignificant small talk to keep him from slipping into the darkness in his mind. 

It was in the middle of the night on the final day that John had the first of his new nightmares, now featuring that graceless plummet through empty air, waking the both of them with a loud shout. He had mindlessly and breathlessly turned into Greg’s solid presence, burying his face in his chest and finally letting his pain and anguish out, heaving great wracking sobs into the older man’s threadbare vest. 

He had soothed him through it in the same manner that he had looked after him, with gentle but sincere care and concern, murmuring low noises as he rubbed at his arms and upper back. When John had wrung his body dry of all tears and other extraneous fluids, Greg had fetched him tissues and a large glass of water. He didn’t offer any trite comfort, simply stating, “I have to be back at the Met in the morning. Will you be alright?”

It was then that John had realised what Greg’s extended presence in his life had meant - he had most likely been suspended for his part in the whole ‘Holmes fiasco’, and he had chosen to spend it with him, trying to help to put him back together again. John had nodded bleakly and mumbled, “I’ll manage,” while wondering how many times Greg had perhaps been in a similar situation with Sherlock, caring for him after a dangerous lapse in judgment. 

But then, that night had seen him at Greg’s flat instead, clutching at a small bag containing one change of clothes and his toothbrush. John knew that he should have felt some sense of shame for imposing; he hadn’t even phoned or anything, but Greg simply smiled and nodded, and had shown him where he kept the tea and biscuits. There had been a few evenings that John had tried to go back to Baker Street on his own, but the eerie silence had kept him awake most of the night, his ears straining to catch just one hurried footfall, just one pluck of a vibrating violin string. 

There had been nothing but his own rabbiting heartbeat, nothing but that heavy darkness that was threatening to engulf him. He kept his bathroom light on as he attempted to sleep, needing a beacon to keep the bad dreams at bay. Not that it helped in the least, no. The only thing that did help was Greg, his solid and strong presence, his smell, the sound of his steady breathing. 

And so John had kept coming over, bringing different clothes with him each time and leaving his previous hauls there at Greg’s, carelessly mixing their dirty laundry together. It hadn’t been discussed, not really. There had just been room made for him, extra hangers in the wardrobe and empty drawers in the bureau. John would stop at the shop on the way ‘home’ to buy Greg’s preferred brand of biscuits, and he found his favourite (although not readily available) jam up in the cupboard one lazy Sunday morning. 

Even though the situation had turned quite domestic, there hadn’t been any physical intimacy between the two men other than the standard amount of brushing up against each other in the normal course of the day. And the sharing of Greg’s bed, although it was with a significant space between, both of them sticking to their respective sides of the mattress. Not that John’s mind hadn’t begun to turn in a certain direction, even before Mycroft and his damned meddling. Rather difficult not to, as he caught the tail-end of lingering glances and the barest wistful sighs dropping from a set of rather lovely lips. 

And then there were the sounds that would come out of the shower nearly every morning, the low grunts of bliss as Greg sought his pleasure, sounds that would have John aching for his own turn under the water to relieve his growing tension. But he hadn’t wanted to assume, and Greg had already done so much for him, asking absolutely nothing in return. And of course now that Mycroft had liberally sprinkled those seeds of contention, he was coming to accept the idea of seeing his friend in this completely new light. Damn him yet again!

John shook his head and trotted up the stairs to his room, looking around carefully. There really wasn’t much left - it wasn’t like he’d had all that much to begin with. The flat had mostly been Sherlock’s - his presence was draped over every surface, it permeated the very walls. This, the small room that he had taken when they had both moved in had been the only place that was John’s at all. And now it felt like nothing more than that dismal bedsit that he had inhabited when he had first been invalided back to London, stark and lifeless. He sighed as he realised that there was nothing here for him any more, a bit of weight easing from between his shoulder blades as he finally accepted the truth of it.

While he didn’t think that he would take Mycroft up on his oh so snide but somewhat generous offer, he decided that he would finally talk to Greg about making his change of residence a bit more - official. There was no denying that John couldn’t manage on his own, at least not any more. John supposed that he should have been upset about that - he’d always been very independent, even as a child. But that was more out of a sense of necessity than something he actually sought out. He hadn’t had much choice, really. With his mum being dead and gone, his father lost in a drunken stupor most of the time, and Harry... Well, it was better not to think of Harry. With all of that, it was either fend for himself or go cold and hungry. 

Now he had someone in his life that was willing to look after him, who apparently wanted to keep him safe and even make him happy. But he had taken enough of Greg’s selfless generosity - it was time to give something back, dammit. He just had to figure out a way to make Greg happy in return. It shouldn’t be all that complicated, right?

After stuffing the few remaining pairs of pants and vests into his duffel, John slouched back down the stairs and paused for a long while in the sitting room, knowing that he would be back, but silently acknowledging to himself that it wouldn’t be for long. He was ready to move on. He slipped a couple of books into his bag and then turned toward the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly impatient, and so very close! Please comment!
> 
> (And maybe my lovely readers will pick up on the hint of a very particular dynamic brewing between these two...)

Greg and his team had been working the same case for nearly a fortnight now, resulting in late nights for the both of them, since John couldn't even close his eyes without the other man in bed with him.  John had been the recipient of a few aggravated rants bemoaning the fact that they just couldn’t seem to catch a damn break on it over a few midnight meals. Although there were obviously things that the Detective Inspector couldn’t tell him about an on-going investigation, John had tried to be useful where he could. He had pointed out certain inconsistencies in what he had been told and beamed as Greg paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes going distant as he considered. It had almost felt like old times, even as Greg shook his head and blurted out, “Sherlock would’ve solved it in a day, no doubt. Prat.”

Greg had sucked in an apologetic breath as soon as the words were past his lips, as dropping that particular name had a tendency to put quite the damper on any pleasant atmosphere that had been built up between the two men. John had just squinted at him through the steam curling up from his tea as Greg slowly deflated, smiling faintly at the furrow between greying brows. “Yeah. He would’ve.” Dark eyes had studied his face with care, and the relief that Greg exuded had made John felt quite light and carefree for the first time in a very long while.

John received a text on his way home that excitedly informed him that they had finally gotten that break and would be apprehending the suspect that very night. To celebrate, he detoured a couple of streets down to swing by what had become their favourite Thai place, picking up enough food to feed a small pack of wolves. He felt a distinct bubble of warmth expanding in his chest as he thought of how Greg might show his appreciation and his cheeks were blazing merrily all the way back to the flat, his arms groaning under the weight of his packages.

He spread it all out on the coffee table and got a pot of tea started as he began to pick at the various dishes, slurping down a noodle here and spearing a bit of meat or veg there. The look on Greg’s face when he walked in was totally worth the effort that he had taken in getting it to the flat, and John ducked his head when he felt his cheeks warming slightly.

“Bless. You’re a bloody godsend.” Barely pausing to shed his suit jacket, Greg rolled his sleeves up and plopped down on the sofa next to him, immediately digging into the various containers in the same manner. He devoured bits and pieces here and there, giving not one damn about sharing any of it with his flatmate. They both broke out into childish giggles as they dove into the same container at nearly the same moment, their forks colliding and warring with each other briefly to snag the last piece of meat.

John graciously conceded defeat with a loud raspberry blown in Greg’s direction, making him nearly choke on his well-earned prize. Greg nudged their knees together as he swallowed, his dark eyes twinkling with delight as his lips turned up, igniting a small blaze in John’s belly. Yeah, God... Mycroft had been right, hadn’t he? Even in the euphoria after a hard-won case with Sherlock, he had never felt as free with him as he did now with Greg, had never allowed himself to drop his defences, even if it was just to goof around. They may have been friends after their own fashion, but they had never really been _mates_. Not like this.

Once the considerable pile of food had been reduced to little more than remnants of sauce and satisfied if slightly achy bellies, they settled back with a fresh pot of tea to share between them and a bit of mindless telly to wind the day down. John waited until Greg had muted the obnoxious adverts to turn to him, only to find his dark eyes watching him in anticipation as he had clearly sussed out a distinct change in John’s demeanour.

“So, um. When I dropped by Baker Street earlier, I happened to run into Mycroft.”

“Probably not a happy accident, knowing him.” Greg pursed his lips as he looked at him askance, reading him far too easily. “Finally blurted it out, did he?”

“Not as such, no. Just - hinted at certain things, and let me come to the obvious conclusion.”

“Yeah, course he did. ‘Cause Heaven forfend either of those damned Holmes boys would just come out and say something straight, am I right?” Greg heaved out a shuddering breath. “Shite. Sorry.”

John shrugged, his eyes glancing away as the light from the telly flickered. The programme was back on, but Greg was ignoring it in favour of watching his face. “It’s not like what you’re saying is untrue. They both have or - had - their little secrets, and they both derived some sense of power by holding them over other people’s heads. Perhaps Mycroft more than his brother, but still... I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.”

Greg leant back against the sofa arm and tilted his head. “Surprised how, exactly? That I’d be involved with a man - or that it was that man in particular?” His bright grin flashed out into the dim of the room. “Thought I’d be smarter than that?”

“Um.” John shrugged again, half-turning to face him. “Yeah, maybe. Not that you have to share if you don’t want to, of course, but... Yeah. Why? What the hell _were_ you thinking?”

“Wasn’t. Not really.” Greg’s eyes dropped to his fingers as they tangled in his lap. “The first time it happened was after one of Sherlock’s - episodes. It was a bad one, the worst that either of us had seen up to that point. The doctors honestly seemed a bit shocked that he even managed to pull through. And Mycroft and I, well, we just sort of collided at some point while we were keeping vigil. And then we kept finding reasons to - well, to run into each other again. Sans clothing, of course.” Greg looked up suddenly, catching John’s eyes. “He can be a right bastard, obviously. But he does it to protect himself. He feels, John. He feels so damn _much_ , and even now, even after being laid to waste by that man, I can still see it. It kills me a little inside every time.”

John sighed and reached out to squeeze Greg’s arm. “He resents it, doesn’t he? That you can read him so easily.”

“That I know how much he loves me, yeah. Misses me. Can’t even admit it to himself, but holy God does he resent it.” Greg’s shoulders dropped a bit. “Bit surprised he just hasn’t had me done away with, so that I’d stop being a thorn in his side.” John sucked in a breath as Greg’s eyes darted up to catch his again. “It’s not like I’m - pursuing him or anything. I... I still care for him, I obviously can’t just turn it off like that. But there’s no way I’d let him back into my life again. I definitely learnt my lesson on that score. I mean, you know - if you were concerned... Or if you thought... Or... Dammit.”

John allowed himself to scoot a bit closer, still clinging to Greg’s arm. “I’m not concerned. You’re here now, aren’t you? I know where you’d rather be.” Swallowing past a suddenly arid throat, he briefly went up on his knees to press a trembling kiss to Greg’s cheek. John slumped back down again as soon as his hopeful gesture was made, casting his eyes to his feet as he shyly avoided Greg’s interested gaze. His body trembled only minutely as his hand was removed from Greg’s arm, as he felt broad fingers twining gently into his.

“Yeah. You do know.”

John shivered with delight at the raw note in Greg’s voice, trying to control his breathing as he processed the burgeoning tension building between them. He smirked as he finally looked up, pleased to note that Greg’s face was carefully neutral, even though his body was held tight in anticipation. “So maybe we could make it official, then? I mean, my moving in here.” John shrugged as Greg looked at him with a small wrinkle of confusion between his brows. “I mean, I know that I’ve been saying ‘until I get on my feet and all’, but I don’t think I can. I tried, Greg. I really tried to go back and be on my own, and I feel so stupid admitting this, but I just can’t. I need this, I need someone to come home to - Mycroft was right, the utter bastard - I can’t make it alone. Not anymore.”

“Shh...” John blinked as he was pulled into Greg’s side with an easy arm around his shoulders, holding himself stiffly for just a moment before simply melting into him. “Mycroft is always right, unfortunately. And this _is_ your home, John. I said as much when I gave you that key.”

“You said for as long as I needed it.”

Greg’s chuckle vibrated into John’s body, making him flush from top to toe. “Right. That’s exactly what I said. And so if you need it until the end of your days, it’s still yours. I want you here with me, John. I want... I would very much appreciate the privilege of looking after you, if you’ll allow it. But if this-” Greg squeezed him a little harder before easing up on the pressure, keeping his arm draped over his shoulders lightly. “If this is too much, if you’re uncomfortable with anything at all, you'll tell me right then and there, yeah?”

John nodded shakily and Greg huffed out a quiet breath, his voice low and serious. “I may not know as much about you as a certain meddling arsehole, but I get the distinct feeling that you’ve never been with a man before, at least not like this. I’m an honest and straightforward kind of bloke, and I’ll make no bones about it. I do want you, in my life as well as in my bed. You’re a remarkable individual, John Watson, and cute as hell to boot." Greg hesitated, his cheeks going a rosy shade of pink as his eyes zeroed in on John's mouth. "I want to do absolutely filthy things to you." He shook himself as John made a low noise in the back of his throat, something needy but apprehensive at the same time. "But only when you’re ready - only when you want it too.” Greg sighed as John shifted in his seat, snuggling up closer and putting a tentative hand on his knee, squeezing it gently. John shivered again as he felt a hand at the nape of his neck, a light but firm squeeze that excited him and reassured him all at the same time. “I mean it, John. Don’t let me bugger this up for you.”

“You won’t.” John snuggled into Greg’s side and turned his attention back to the telly as the volume was boosted once again, letting his mind wander and wonder and plan. His body soothed by the warmth of the man that he was plastered to, he quickly dropped off to a dreamless sleep.

He was awakened with that same hand on his neck, something more persistent than the gentle nudging that had lulled him to slumber. He mumbled under his breath as he was pushed to his feet, nodding along to Greg’s steady voice. “C’mon, lad. Work with me here, hm?”

”Mm-hmm...” John shuffled his feet obligingly, swaying in place as he was stripped down to his vest and pants. He fell into the bed, sighing happily as his head hit the cool pillow, burying his face in it to revel in the smell of Greg’s laundry soap, the faintest traces of his spicy cologne. John grumbled faintly as there was motion in the bed behind him, but then a warm, solid body was pressed up against his and oh God _yes_ , that was just what he had needed, and for far too long. Greg slipped an arm around his waist, and John wriggled closer, heaving out a gusty sigh of relief.

“Oh, that’s so much better, yeah?”

John mumbled another affirmative. “Thank you, Greg. Thank you for everything.” The arm wrapped around him tightened slightly, and a sudden if ridiculous thought struck John. “When... When I move in for real, can Billy come with me?”

“Billy?” John kept his eyes closed as Greg pushed himself up on his elbow, looking down on his faint smile. “Ah. That’d be the skull, wouldn’t it?” John nodded dreamily and snuggled in a bit deeper as a puff of Greg’s laughter washed over his cheek. “As long as Mycroft says it’s okay, yes, you can bring Billy along. Just so long as he keeps that sharp grin of his in the sitting room. He in’t allowed to peek on us in here, alright?”

John giggled and nodded, already halfway under again. All it took was a long moment of peace, the steady push and pull of Greg’s breathing, the weight of his arm holding him close, and he slipped into blissful darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit angsty - John has a nightmare. :( But it's okay, cause Greg is there for him...
> 
> Please comment - I adore you all!

Not that it remained blissful all that long, oh no. John had gradually become aware of a certain pattern when it came to his damaged brain making a nuisance of itself. Whenever he had a particularly emotionally fraught day, elation, sorrow or anger - it didn’t matter - he was sure to be plagued by those damn nightmares. Ella had told him that he was actually setting himself up for it, that the fear and anticipation was enough to trigger his subconscious to speak up in the dead of night. Not that any of the calming techniques that she had taught him did a damn thing to stop it from happening anyway...

They had just become a part of him, really, and John found that accepting that had gone a long way toward making them less frequent occurrences, although that didn’t help to lessen the intensity when they did occur. Knowing this, John was rather certain that he was going to have to deal with some kind of disturbance in the night, but the warmth of the man at his back left him hopeful that it wouldn’t happen. Although if it did, he knew that Greg would see him through it, that he would help to calm him and comfort him in the aftermath.

So it wasn’t a surprise - not really - and it didn’t come out of nowhere as they usually did. No, this one started as a rather pleasant dream, something innocuous and really rather relaxing. John found himself on a random park bench, luxuriating in a little late afternoon sunshine. He had a book and a cup of coffee, something fragrant and just on the acceptable side of too sweet. But it was clearly one of the best things he’d ever tasted, as he kept sipping away at it, feeling it slide down his throat and splash into his belly, spreading warmth all through his body.

Whatever he was reading was apparently amusing as hell, as he kept chuckling to himself, but when he tried to focus on the actual words, they slipped from his eyes or jumbled all up into one homogeneous mass. Feeling a little frustrated, he put the book down and turned his face up into the sunshine. That was when he first felt it - the sensation of eyes on him. His shoulder twinged, but when he put a hand to it, he didn’t feel the all too familiar sensation of shattered nerve endings, the vague impression of nothingness.

John slipped his fingers into his jumper, feeling only smooth, unbroken skin. Oh, so it was to be one of those, was it? But no. Those particular nightmares always featured a desert background, the sun relentlessly beating down on the back of his neck as he crouched in the sand. John looked up and saw only green lawn and leafy trees, a faint breeze making the leaves rattle in soothing waves. His head turned against his will, catching a brief flash of something high up on the blank building behind him. And still that feeling of being watched pervaded his senses, the feeling of... Shit.

Of being targeted.

Standing slowly, John made a show of stretching and wandering along the lawn, quickly ducking behind the shelter of one of those trees as soon as he reached it. He hunkered down to make a smaller target, knowing that if the sniper had a sufficiently high-powered weapon, a few inches of living wood wouldn’t put up much resistance. And now that the sniper knew that he was made, John was definitely in a considerable amount of danger. But there didn’t seem to be any way out.

Although his dreams of Afghanistan were bad enough - every damn time he felt the danger as a palpable living thing - but there was always a part of his mind that knew the outcome, that understood that he would live, and so the terror was usually tempered somewhat. This was completely different. He had absolutely no idea how this was going to end, and his heart was beating fast enough that it felt as though it might just leap from his chest. Where could he go, what could he do? It was a wide open space; the trees set far enough apart that even at a flat-out sprint, there was no way he’d make it to another shelter before the crack of the rifle would ring out.

John patted his pockets, trying to calm his breathing and still the shakiness in his fingers. Phone! Oh God, yes. But who? Logically, he knew Mycroft would be the best option, would have the sniper sniped before he could even blink - but to hell with that. He was too frightened, too disoriented. Greg. He needed Greg. He cursed under his breath as he fumbled at the buttons, the numbers all jumbling up in the same manner that the letters in the book had. John blinked at that, a little bit of calm returning to his brain as he paused long enough to take in the implications. Dream, it was just a dream. You can make this stop, John. You can take control. Right?

The phone rang. Startled, John dropped it between his crouched knees, his lips turning down in a frown as it connected to the caller. A tinny voice echoed up at him from the ground. “John?”

John picked it up and put it to his ear, closing his eyes against a sudden sense of vertigo, his head and his guts rotating in opposite directions. “Sherlock?” When he opened them again, he was standing in the open street in front of Barts, looking up and up, his stomach dropping to the pavement. “Sherlock, no. Stop this.”

“Isn’t this what people do? Leave a note?”

“No.” Sherlock didn’t care what people did, he never had, why did he care now? “No. Don’t.” Dimly, John was still aware of the sensation of eyes on him, of a rifle trained on his back, nothing but wary prey trembling out in the open. But he didn’t care, he didn’t matter, the only one who mattered was Sherlock. His irritating flatmate, his mad genius - his best friend. “No, Sherlock. No. You listen to me. Whatever this is, whatever is going on here, it is going to stop. Right now.” John watched as Sherlock swayed on the edge of the building, one hand outstretched as if trying to touch him. “This is going to stop, and you are going to come down. By the stairs, you git. You are going to come down here to me and we will make it right. Together.” John sucked in a breath and physically stomped his foot even as that tingling sensation at the base of his neck spiked. “You come down from there. Right now.”

Sherlock swayed, and seemed to take a step back from the ledge. “John, I...”

“Now, Sherlock Holmes. Right. Fucking. _Now_.” John felt his left hand curl into a tight fist, something of triumph spiking through his chest as the silhouette on the roof started to back away. But then that relief swiftly turned to horror as he heard the crack of a shot resounding through the air, diving to the right milliseconds before feeling the impact, his breath caught in his chest as he went down. Lying on the pavement, his eyes unblinking as the blood flowed from his left shoulder, feeling nothing, absolutely nothing until there was a shadow falling from the sky, and he sucked in breath only to let it out on a harsh, barking, _“Sherlock!”_

And then another impact, felt through the cold, unforgiving ground, and it was his face, his beautiful, alien face streaked with blood and John was crawling toward him, his own mortal wound all but forgotten, even as strange hands were striving to help him, to stop him. “No, no he’s my friend, please. He’s my friend.” His left arm fell limply at his side as he reached out with his right, grasping a wrist that had already gone cold.

The wail that came up out of his belly was unlike anything that John had ever experienced before, something full of loss and rage and untempered sorrow, almost as though everything that he had held within him, every hurt, every disgrace, was now pouring out of his throat in one fell swoop. He felt the stinging slap across his face only as an afterthought, as he took in another deep breath, as his air was gently shaken out of him before it could become another scream.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is where we start to get a bit naughty, but nothing too explicit. Yet.
> 
> Please do comment, and I hope everyone is having a very pleasant holiday season!

John opened his eyes to low light, to a deeper shadow looming over him. It took him only half a moment to recognise Greg, dimly aware that he was straddling his waist and holding his arms down firmly. The pressure eased as soon as Greg realised that he was fully awake, and he caressed his cheek apologetically as he slipped off of him. “Sorry love, but you were screaming - I couldn’t wake you.” John took in a shuddering breath as Greg laid down beside him again, as he pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “Did - did I hurt you?”

John shook his head faintly, still struggling to contain his heartbeat. “He - he’s gone.” He grunted as he rolled over, rolled away, a little surprised to feel that familiar tingling in his left shoulder. John sighed as he felt Greg reaching out to him, running his fingers through his hair and squeezing at the back of his neck. He subconsciously ducked his head, giving Greg more to grasp, his spine going a bit wobbly at his touch. “He’s really gone, isn’t he?”

“Sorry, lad.” Greg moved a bit closer, resting his hand lightly on John’s ribcage, humming low as it was captured and brought up under his chin. “But yes, Sherlock’s gone. He’s not coming back.”

“No. Not even Mycroft is that powerful.”

John smiled into the darkness at Greg’s small huff of laughter, shivering as he ran the tip of his nose along his hairline. “It’s okay to feel his loss, John. It’s okay to cry if you need to.”

“That’s just it.” John turned his head slightly, letting Greg’s fingers wipe away the lingering moisture from his face, whether tears or sweat, he wasn’t even sure. “I don’t think I have felt it, not properly. I’ve been denying it, pushing it aside.”

“Do you need to talk about it? This obviously wasn’t the first nightmare you’ve had, but this one was definitely more intense than the ones I’ve seen before. You were twitching and cursing for a good twenty minutes before you let loose with that scream.” Greg seemed to shrug as John cast an unseeing glance over his shoulder. “Yeah, I was watching. Wanted to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself, but you seemed okay until that yell. What made this one different, then?”

John took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, relaxing into Greg’s touch as he ran his hand in slow, small circles over his breastbone. “I never understood why, you know? His ‘note’, the confession he made to me that he was a fake. I never believed it, and that just made it harder to accept. If that was a lie, then why couldn’t the whole damn thing be a sham, right?”

“But you _saw_ him, John. You saw him fall.”

“Fucking bastard that he was, yeah.” John hummed as Greg scooted in closer. “Yeah, I saw him fall. Saw him broken. But I still couldn’t grasp it, not really.”

“So what’s changed?”

“I think..." John let out a deep breath, nodding to himself as his vague thoughts coalesced. "I think I may have figured out _why_. It wasn’t something I could really analyse before, but I remember feeling a bit odd that whole day. Like someone was watching me.”

Greg stiffened behind him. “Like you were being targeted?” John threw a look over his shoulder, his eyes wide in the dim light. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. I didn’t think much of it at the time, I mean, job like mine, I’ve always got eyes on me. But there was something different about that day - kept pulling my collar up, y’know?”

“That’s what I dreamt, Greg. I had managed to talk him down, and he was coming down to me, but then I got shot, and he jumped. He did it to protect me - to protect _us_. I’m almost positive.”

“God.” Greg pulled him in a bit closer, tucking his legs up behind his bent knees.

John huffed out a slightly aggravated breath. “It makes more sense now, but I still can’t forgive him for it, the git.”

“No. And you don’t have to. You know that, right?” John squirmed as Greg’s touch ghosted over his chest. “I hear it all the time, that you have to forgive the wrongs done against you in order to move on. But that’s bullshit. You don’t have to forgive anything. You just have to not let it weigh you down, not let it fester. Your anger is a part of you, John, and it’s valid. This was not your fault, it was complete and utter bullshit that he forced you to witness it, and there was absolutely nothing that you could have done to stop him.”

“Greg...” Once again, John felt his breath catching in his chest, Greg’s words sinking down into him, taking hold of his spine and making it twist. He closed his eyes and wriggled into his strength and his warmth, feeling his breath on the back of his neck, shivering as his lips traced the outer shell of his ear.

“I mean it, lad. Sherlock’s actions were his own, and there was nothing you could have done. Tell me you understand.”

“I... I do understand. I do know that I couldn’t have stopped him. It’s not my fault.” John shuddered, something in his belly shaking loose with a quiet sob. “It’s not my fault.”

“No.” Greg splayed his palm over his sternum, his fingers tapping gently at his chest over his heart. “It’s not.” He settled back into the pillows behind him, still caressing gently as he pressed his lips to the crown of John’s head.

John held himself still, his breath and his heart once again mimicking something like their normal rhythm. But he found himself acutely aware of the solid body tucked up against his, of the protective and sheltering posture that Greg had assumed around him. Safe. He was safe and warm, and he knew that he wouldn’t have the same dream again - his subconscious had done its job. He’d had his epiphany and had realised the truth. So why couldn’t he close his eyes? His cock twitched at a low but inquisitive hum in his ear, and John bit his lip, blinking into the darkness, before taking Greg’s arm by the wrist and deliberately moving his hand down his body.

“Oh?” Greg pressed his palm to the bulge slowly filling out in John’s briefs, closing his fingers around it lightly. “Is this little nuisance going to prevent you from going back to sleep, lad?”

“Little?”

Greg chuckled low as he squeezed, mouthing at John’s neck. “Want me to make it all better, hm?” John nodded almost bashfully, rocking into his touch. “I need to hear it, John. Need to know you mean it.”

“Greg, please. Please bring me off. God, but I do need it.” He let a soft sound slip from his lips, something desperate and pleading. “I need _you_.”

“Oh, but that’s lovely. I’m here for you, lad. I’m here.” John squeaked faintly as his body stretched under Greg’s careful attentions, as thick but deft fingers slid into the waistband of his pants, pushing them down and freeing his needy cock.

John sighed and squirmed, his breath sticking in his throat as he was stroked with a firm grip. “Oh God, that’s good, that’s... _ngh_.” He reached up and behind to grasp at Greg’s hair as he began to thrust, moaning as teeth grazed over his neck and worried at his earlobe.

“That’s it, lad. Use me. I’m here for your pleasure right now. Want to make you feel good, want to help you sleep.” Greg’s fist tightened as John’s rhythm broke into something erratic, growling low in his ear as his flesh twitched in his grasp. “That’s it. There’s my good boy...”

John cried out as he came, his back bowing as he curled up in on himself, barely aware that Greg had followed his motion, had kept his torso tucked in close to his back. He stroked him gently through each subsequent spasm, dabbling his fingertips in the mess that was left behind. John lolled limply as he was released, humming as his fingers were shaken free from Greg’s head, the older man chuckling at him softly.

He was only dimly aware of movement, of his flatmate and now lover stripping off his vest and using it to aid in clean-up. His briefs were tugged back up and his limbs rearranged as he was rolled into Greg’s side, but he did not hesitate to lay his head on his chest, listening to his heart beating steady and true. Biting his lip and fighting his drooping eyelids, John began to run his hand down a surprisingly firm torso, but said wandering hand was swiftly captured and placed deliberately over Greg’s chest, and he obediently tangled his fingers into the coarse hair there.

“Later, my sweet. Sleep now, and we’ll play a bit later, okay?”

John nodded dazedly, his brain swimming with endorphins. His mumbled, “Yes, sir,” caused a swift shiver to run through the body that he was tucked into, but he was already far too gone to even take heed of his own words.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is where my muse unexpectedly went this afternoon... Have a bit more of John and Greg getting to know each other. Still not terribly dirty, but - well. You know me. ;-p
> 
> Kisses to all my lovely readers, please do comment if you are so inclined.

The next time John woke, it was to a gentle shifting in the mattress, and he blinked his eyes open to catch sight of Greg slipping out the door, making his way across the hall to the loo. His brain was still a bit foggy from sleep, and he let his eyes drift closed again, expecting to hear the now familiar and welcome sounds of the small flat coming to life - the rattle of the kettle, the clink of a spoon against a mug, the not-so-faint swearing when Greg realised that he had used the last bit of bread for his toast the morning before.

John may have even giggled a little in anticipation of the creative but blistering curses, and found himself frowning instead as there was just the shuffle of feet across the carpeting, the weight of a body being lowered back to the mattress. With only a fleeting caress on his upper arm, Greg lured John into rolling back into the warmth of his body, both of them sighing quietly as they settled into a comfortable cuddle. Neither of them seemed inclined to go back to sleep, but neither were they particularly eager to pull away from each other to start the day.

Greg hummed quietly as John nuzzled into his chest hair and deftly slipped a knee in between his thighs. John froze momentarily as he came to the startling but not entirely unwelcome realisation that his companion was completely starkers underneath the bedsheet, his thigh nudging innocently at Greg’s heavy bollocks. “Oh.”

Greg chuckled as he squeezed John’s arm, holding him close. “Saturday - you don’t have a shift today, right?” John shook his head, biting his lip as he avoided the keen chocolate-brown eyes. “Good. Thought not.” John squawked inelegantly as Greg rolled away from him slightly, digging into the drawer in his bedside table. What he saw made him want to curl up into a ball, but he curtailed that impulse at the expression on Greg’s face, as it filled him with the desire to stay put - to please his new lover. He ended up clutching the bedsheet up to his chin as his bed-mate settled down on his back, handing the soft sleeping mask to him.

John fingered it delicately, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. “I... Well.”

“Don’t look so worried, lad. I want you to put it on me.”

“Um?”

Greg chuckled again, lacing his hands behind his head and looking up at him. “I trust you, John. Completely. I want you to believe that, and this is how I can make that happen.” He nodded toward the other item that he had left on the table top, a set of quick cuffs. “I’ll let you put those on me too, if you want.”

John shifted where he sat propped up against the pillows, an undeniable curiosity beginning to make his cock perk up and take notice. “And then what?”

“And then we play a game.” Greg snickered up at him. “We’re going to play Doctor, lad.” John couldn’t hold back on the full-body shudder that shook the bed, and Greg paused, looking up at him seriously. “Does that bother you, John? The ‘lad’ bit?” He bit his lip and lowered his eyes a little bashfully. “That’s something that tends to slip out when I’m - well - when I’m with someone that I feel a certain connection with. It hasn’t always been welcome, though. If it bothers you, tell me now, and I’ll do what I can to put a lid on it.”

"No..." John shook his head, fighting the urge to hide his blazing cheeks. “No, I - um, I like it.” His voice dropped to a bare whisper at the soft intake of breath next to him. “I like it a lot.”

Greg sat up and chucked him under the chin, bringing him in for a brief but tender kiss, his eyes glowing with delight. “You want to be my good boy, that it?”

_“Hngh...”_

“Oh, but we are going to have a grand time together, aren’t we?”

John put his hand over Greg’s, his broad, warm palm cupping his cheek. His eyes fluttered shut as he sighed, nodding silently.

“Oh, _such_ a good boy...”

“Sir... Please.”

This time it was Greg who let out an indiscriminate noise of lust and desire, making John’s lips curl up in pleasure. “Oh _yes_ , lad.” He tapped on the hand still clutching the sleep-mask tight. “Go on, then.”

John’s fingers trembled only slightly as he put it over his companion’s face, making sure that the straps were snug and no light could peek through. “Now what?”

Greg laid back down and made himself comfy, wriggling into the mattress. “Well, what do you usually do when you’ve got a new patient on your table, lad?”

“I examine them.”

“Too right.” Greg folded his hands over his belly. “I want you to get comfortable with me, to get to know my body. So examine and explore at your own pace. That’s another reason for the blindfold - I don’t want you to feel like I’m judging you or encouraging you to go faster than you’re comfortable with. So you can look, you can touch and smell or even taste. Whatever you want, sweet lad.” He reached out blindly to tap John’s knee as he shifted to kneel next to him. “And don’t feel like you need to take care of Mr. Happy if you’re not feeling it. I’m quite sure he’ll pop up to say hello, but he won’t be offended if you don’t return the greeting. He’s used to getting ignored from time to time.”

John broke out into heady if relieved giggles, bracing one hand on Greg’s chest to keep from simply toppling over. “You’re so thoughtful. I must say that this is a - unique - seduction technique.”

Greg shrugged and turned a soft smile in his direction. “I have many tools in my arsenal, lad. This is the one that works best on the shy boys.”

John clucked his tongue in vague chastisement even as he ran his fingers gently through the generous patch of salt-and-pepper chest hair. “I’m not exactly a blushing virgin, you know.”

“Near enough for me. I don’t want to spook you, so we’ll be moving at your pace.”

“I appreciate that, sir. I truly do.” John took hold of Greg’s hand as he started to shift it back to his belly, bringing it up and nuzzling into the palm. Greg’s broad thumb twitched against John’s lips, and he smirked as he took it between his teeth, giving it a gentle chomp. He ran his nose over the pulse-point in his wrist while tracing his fingers up the inside of Greg’s elbow, humming low as his skin broke out into gooseflesh. John took the opportunity to run his palm over the hair that was standing on end on Greg’s forearm, stroking it backwards before smoothing it down.

Greg made soft noises at every cursory touch, encouraging John’s explorations to continue. Biting his lip, John took the same hand that he had been nuzzling and put it on his knee, patting it to ensure that it stayed where it was put. Beyond a gentle squeeze to show that he understood, Greg kept himself still as he was silently bade. Oddly enough, John felt his breathing ease a bit at the sense of connection he felt, that single point of contact soothing him and keeping him grounded. There was something about Greg’s presence alone that calmed him, his steady and unshakeable confidence bleeding into John’s spine, lending him strength and support.

Although he’d had moments of indiscretion with random blokes at questionable parties in his youth, Greg was quite correct in that John had never been with a man before, at least not to the extent that he was hoping for now with this man in particular. He had of course seen many male bodies laid out on his exam table, but very few of them had actually inspired any less-than-professional thoughts, even when certain offers had been made rather blatantly. Perhaps it was just the filter that John put over his own needs and desires while he was working, but he really didn’t think that had much to do with it.

No, he wanted _this_ man because he knew him, knew the type of man that Greg was - steady and stalwart, loyal and true - and it didn't hurt that he was rather unfairly good-looking to boot. John bit his lip as he looked down on the bounty laid out before him, his fingers twitching with uncertainty. Where should he even start? He blinked as he turned his head, frowning slightly as he noted that Greg still had a sheet pulled up to his waist. Well, he’d have a better idea once his ‘patient’ was completely naked, wouldn’t he? John took in a deep breath as he shifted on his knees, slowly tugging at the bedsheet until Greg was revealed in his full glory, his thick prick already plumping up under his scrutiny.  

Greg wriggled slightly at John’s soft exclamation, his lips quirking up in a gentle smile. “All yours, lad.”

John let his fingers dance up one solid thigh, lifting his hand and watching his fingers tremble as they hovered over Greg’s pubic bone. He let out a shuddering sigh as he clenched his hand into a fist. No, not yet. He instead reached for the hand that was still resting on Greg’s belly, giving it a gentle squeeze as he lifted it, shifting his arm to the side and up, exposing his armpit.

Greg’s breath hitched as John crouched over him, running his nose along the inside of his bicep before trailing it around the outside of the tangle of hair that had been revealed. Greg groaned as John sniffed at him, delicately at first and then with more enthusiasm, taking in a deep breath through his nose and letting it out through his mouth. He giggled faintly as Greg cursed quietly, his skin twitching at each of John’s breathy exhales.

John hummed happily as he shifted his head, running nose and lips over rough skin and coarse hair, delighting in the new scents and strange textures, in the essence that was this man. Ducking his head under Greg’s chin, he nudged at it gently until it was pointing at the ceiling, his lover exposing his throat to him without reservations. Swallowing hard, John licked his lips and nibbled at Greg’s neck, sucking at a small patch of flesh and relishing the tang of sweat on his tongue.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is where one of my personal favourite kinks comes out to play - yay for Daddy/boy! And although John is going to come across as slightly more innocent in his interactions with Greg, he isn't what I consider a 'little', so it's not really ageplay.
> 
> It's a slippery slope, though - so if the possibility squicks you, please look away now...
> 
> As always, comments are highly appreciated and help keep me going!

Greg’s chest was rising and falling at a more rapid pace at every passing moment but he was true to his word, keeping himself as still as he could under John’s tortuously slow explorations. He bit back on his growing desire even as he became aware of the clothed head of John’s stiff prick glancing over his body here and there, each incidental touch leaving a vague smear of pre-come on his skin, making Greg feel almost like he was the pattern in some kind of erotic connect-the-dots puzzle. He nearly giggled aloud at the imagery, wondering if perhaps that was a new game that could be added to his arsenal of boy-taming tricks.

Not that John was going to need much taming, oh no. Greg hummed low at another sharp nip, this one at his earlobe. The tension in the body that was held so carefully above his had already shifted from uncertainty into something a little more urgent, perhaps even needy. Greg fed into that neediness as subtly as he could with quiet murmurs and breathy sighs, emphasising the minute wriggles of his body that were very nearly involuntary.  

He did let out a gasp as there was an unexpected shift in John’s attentions from above the collarbone to below, a sudden if delightfully wet lick at his right nipple. Greg’s hips jerked slightly, and he fisted his hair as he tried to bring his body back under his control, pushing his bum more firmly into the mattress as he shook his head. “Sorry, lad - sorry. Just a bit of a surprise.”

“No...” John made a vaguely approving noise, his voice almost dreamy. “No, sir - it’s fine.” He sighed quietly against Greg’s chest, giving that dusky nub another taste-test. “It’s all fine.” He ran his nose over to the other nipple, subjecting it to the same treatment, adding in a gentle chomp just to make Greg jump again. John giggled quietly at the bitten-off curse from above, reaching down to give Greg’s wrist a little squeeze, pushing his hand lower down his leg as he shifted sideways on the mattress.

Greg took a small liberty, tracing over the protruding bone of John’s ankle before trailing his fingers along his instep, grinning brightly as his foot jerked in his hand. “Ticklish, lad?”

“Nuh-uh.” John shook his head even though Greg couldn’t see him, squealing quietly as those thick but deft fingers quickly put paid to that little white lie. John let out another high-pitched noise as he tried to twist away, poking Greg in the belly. “Fine! Maybe a little...” He panted as Greg subsided, his tongue peeking out between his teeth as he gave John’s foot a little squeeze. “Meanie.”

“Aw, c’mon now...” Greg hesitated, giving John’s big toe a gentle tug. “It’s all in fun, lad. But if I do something you don’t like, you just have to say so, alright? Just tell me to stop and I will.”

“I know, sir.” John traced Greg’s navel in an unending circle, biting his lip at each subsequent twitch of his cock, his mouth watering as pre-come started to bead up at the tip. Still feeling unaccountably shy, he bent down to kiss the small dent in Greg’s belly, running his nose along the dark line of hair leading downward, stopping just shy of his prize but taking in a deep lungful of his scent. “You aren’t mean. Not really. I don’t think you could ever be mean.”

“ _Hngh_. I try not to be. But it wouldn’t be truthful to say that I don’t fail sometimes.”

John ran his palm up and down Greg’s thigh, relishing in the sensation of the coarse hair, in the solidity of his muscles. “You’ve been so kind - taken such good care of me...” John ran his hand down and between, hooking his fingers into Greg’s inner thigh and tugging gently. He bit his lip as his unspoken request was granted, as those fine legs parted and spread wide. Moving slowly, he shifted to kneel in the space that had been opened for him, bracing himself on Greg’s legs as he looked up at his face.

He had thrown his right arm over the sleep mask, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he grasped at the bedding with his left hand. His entire body was held stiff, but John could tell that he was fighting to relax it again, short breaths puffing out from his nose as he writhed against the mattress. Being tucked up between Greg’s legs as he was made him feel oddly small, but the man’s extremely obvious arousal also made him feel rather powerful at the same time.

Greg wanted him - needed him, even. John could feel the force of it emanating off of his body like waves of heat, reaching out to pull him in. Running his hands up Greg’s legs, feeling every tiny quiver of his skin, he closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to honestly plumb the depths of his own feelings. For what was probably the first time in his life, he found himself in the company of someone he could truly depend on - someone who would care for him and look after him with no ulterior motive beyond a hope of shared affection.

He could let down his defences, could allow himself to seek shelter in someone’s arms - could be free to offer the entirety of himself in return. For the first time, he could love. John opened his eyes as the realisation hit him, his body jolting hard as his heart jumped in his chest. Greg must have sensed something as he sat up slightly, his hands reaching out blindly. “Johnny? You okay, love?”

_Oh God._ John nodded vigorously, squeezing gently at Greg’s thighs. “Yeah - m’fine. I just...” He nibbled on his bottom lip and sighed, unsure how to convey what he was feeling, wanting to lay himself out and yet still fighting that instinct to keep his emotions held tight to his chest. “I want...”

“What, lad? Tell me what you want, and I’ll do what I can to make it happen for you.”

“I want to take care of you too. Can - can you show me?”

Greg tilted his head quizzically. “I can certainly try...” His lips pinched together as John reached out to tug at his right hand, and he let him take it. _“Christ.”_ John giggled around the thick finger stuck in his mouth, quickly working his way around to all of them, licking long wet stripes across Greg’s palm. Greg huffed out a laugh of his own as John guided his hand to his crotch. “Oh. You meant that literally...”

John giggled again, laughing until he had nearly run out of air, leaning up against Greg’s right leg as he shifted them both, planting his feet on the mattress. He swallowed down his merriment as Greg moaned throatily, running his fingers up his shaft before closing his hand around it and stroking himself firmly. He shuffled closer almost subconsciously, spreading his legs and settling down as he snugged up tight, his thighs braced underneath Greg’s. John shivered as Greg’s knuckles brushed against his own hard length and he let out a startled squeak as he reached down, pressing his palm against his briefs, holding his cock flat to his belly.

Greg’s hand had stilled, thumb and forefinger held in a shaky circle around the crown of his cock. “Johnny?” His voice was rough and uncertain, and it sent such a spike of desire through John’s body that he almost doubled over. “Alright there?”

John nodded vigorously, squeezing at himself as his eyes tripped over Greg’s body. “Yes, sir. Keep going.” He blushed faintly as Greg raised an authoritative eyebrow, clearly visible even over the sleep mask. “Please, sir.”

“Better.” Greg smiled as he resumed his slow, steady stroking. “You’re a quick learner, eh lad?”

“I want to make you happy, sir.”

Greg grunted faintly as he reached down with his other hand to give his bollocks a gentle tug, once again bumping into and grazing against the damp cotton of John’s pants. The pace of his wanking increased as John ran his fingers up and down his leg, as they tripped over his lower belly and along the back of his hand. “You’re gonna - _hngh._ Christ, boy. I can already tell that you’re gonna make me so _very_ happy.”

John hummed as he let go of himself, leaning forward as Greg’s belly began to quiver, the skin of his neck and chest flushing a deep red. He reached out to snag the sleep mask off Greg’s face, smiling down on him as his dark eyes went wide, his mouth parting on a soft sigh. “I hope so, sir.” John made a needy noise in the back of his throat, running his thumb over Greg’s bottom lip. “Now I want to see you come for me. Please, Daddy.” 

“Ho _shit_.”

John squirmed as Greg started to come almost immediately, his legs tightening around his waist, nearly curling up on himself. He kept his eyes fixed on Greg's lovely face as it cycled through a number expressive emotions, almost feeling each of them himself. Nearly desperate tension, a longing that was fulfilled as his deep brown eyes lit up with delight, heady relief disguised as exquisite pain, and then oh, finally that ecstasy, the sweet bliss of release that was signalled by a long, drawn out moan that seemed to resonate in John’s own chest. He was surprised to find himself blinking against a strange welter of tears as Greg looked up at him in wonder, his body quivering with the odd aftershock underneath him.  

Without thinking on it too hard, John sat back on his heels, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Greg’s thigh before skimming off his vest, silently wiping him down with it. He could feel Greg’s eyes on him, glancing over the scar on his left shoulder that John usually took pains to conceal. But he didn’t need to worry about that nonsense with Greg, did he? He wouldn’t judge him, and he wouldn’t coddle him. Well - unless he wanted him to, obviously.  

Slightly stunned with how natural it felt, John took Greg’s right hand in both of his and nuzzled into it, smelling his musk on it, his sweat and his semen. He pressed a gentle kiss to the palm and crawled up into his lap, making himself as small as possible against Greg’s solid body. “Thank you, Daddy.” 

_“Fffffuck.”_ John giggled into Greg’s neck as he shifted underneath him, pulling himself up and wrapping both arms around him, pressing his lips to his temple. “You sure you okay with that, Johnny?” 

John nodded dreamily, speaking into Greg’s chest. “Yeah. Feels good. Feels right in my head, y’know?” 

Greg shivered against him as John pulled himself in even tighter. “Sounds good in that sweet voice of yours too, my fine lad.” He ran his fingers up and down John’s back before reaching down to give his bum a nice firm squeeze. “Now. What can Daddy do for you, hm? What do you want, sweet boy?”

“I w-want...” John squirmed against Greg's body almost desperately, some part of him still fighting to hold back. But as Greg took him under the chin and tilted his face up, as he kissed him softly and sweetly, the dam seemed to burst deep within him and he sat up, cradling his Daddy’s face in both hands. “I want it all. I need absolutely  _everything_ that you’re willing to give.” John rubbed up against Greg’s stomach and shuddered before dismounting, peeling his damp pants away with a slight grimace. Tossing them aside, John reached out to trace his fingers over Greg’s collarbone and down his sternum. “And I need it _now_ , Daddy.”


End file.
